


'Twas the Night Before Christmas

by Thuri



Series: Men do not quit playing because they grow old; they grow old because they quit playing [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Age Play, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-27
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:48:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thuri/pseuds/Thuri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>That worked, launching Clint to his feet, one hand closing around the ankle of his My Pet Monster toy. “Okay,” he said, nodding, holding his hand over his mouth as he yawned. “But I’m not sleepy. And neither is Bruce,” he added, hugging the toy to his chest.</i> </p><p>  <i>“Okay,” Phil replied, his heart aching. Clint was so soft like this, so sweet and vulnerable in a way that Barton never was. That the man trusted him enough to see the little boy still sometimes took his breath away. “Let’s get you a bath and get you into bed.”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Kink meme fill for prompt: A lot of people think Clint and Coulson are sleeping together. They're not, but Clint lets everyone believe they are, because the reality is so much harder to explain. It isn't some kind of weird daddy-kink. He just likes being taken care of sometimes.

No one even blinked at the Captain America pajamas.

Clint unwrapped them, tearing into the cheerful Christmas gift wrap, enjoying the way Phil flinched, just slightly. Phil _saved_ wrapping paper, excavating every gift like it was an archeological treasure. He even used a small pen knife to carefully slice the tape before even more carefully folding the paper after.

Clint tore into his gifts, wrapping and bows flying in all directions.

And neither of them changed their ways for the other Avengers, all gathered around the tree. Clint had heard Tony grumbling, when Steve insisted they “open presents as a team” but he couldn’t bring himself to join in. It was so...Christmasy. Ridiculously so.

They had homemade, decorated cookies--Tony was taking great joy in biting the heads off the Iron Man ones--hot chocolate, a pile of presents under the _huge_ tree, and the lights of New York spread out under them. It was...magical, in a way he couldn’t _ever_ remember Christmas being before.

So yeah, he was enjoying himself, opening presents with the team that’d become his family, laughing with the others at Tony’s idea of appropriate gifts, generally having a wonderful time. So when he tore off the paper on the gift labeled _To: The World’s Greatest Marksman, From: Your Handler/Babysitter,_ he felt his grin widen hugely. Captain America pajamas. Not vintage, but they had to be custom...because they were the exact set he’d had as a kid, yet sized to fit him now. He glanced up, to see Phil smiling at him, and felt a sudden warmth spread through his belly. _Oh_.

“Whatcha got, Barton?” Tony asked, looking over his shoulder.

Clint grinned, holding them up. “Something to embarrass Steve,” he replied, laughing when Steve’s face did, indeed, flush. “Please tell me you got everyone a pair, Coulson.”

Coulson chuckled softly. “You’re the only one who gets pajamas, Barton.”

“I knew you were Cap’s groupie, Phil, but dressing your boyfriend up like him? That’s a little twisted, isn’t it?” Tony grinned, yelping when he was hit by pillows from several sides. Neither Clint or Phil bothered to correct him--again--that they weren’t together.

And they weren’t. Not like _that_.

A few more teasing mentions, and then Tony’d unwrapped the Captain America lunchbox from Phil and it was forgotten. But Clint made sure to bundle the PJs up, taking them with him when he and Phil left the others for the night.

* * *

“Santa’s not going to come if you’re not asleep, you know,” Phil said gently, running his hand through Clint’s hair.

Clint looked up at him, a truly adorable pout on his face. “Five more minutes?”

“I already gave you ten,” Phil said, shaking his head. “C’mon, Clint, it’s time for bed.”

“But I can’t abandon my men!” Clint’s bottom lip protruded even further as he huddled closer to the small army of medieval styled plastic figures in front of him and his eyes grew wide. “The army of Bartonia’s just about to _win_. If we stop now the evil Starkians will, and then we’ll _never_ get the castle.”

Wondering distantly how anyone had ever been able to deny this boy _anything_ , given that look, Phil sighed. “All right. Five more minutes. But that’s it, okay?”

“Okay!” Clint grinned--impishly enough that Phil had to smother a laugh. Clint knew exactly what he was doing...but Phil didn’t really mind. He sat back on the couch, watching Clint’s army of knights and archers take on the dozen or so Iron Man action figures he had arrayed against them.

It was a short fight, and Stark would’ve wept to see the casualties.

When the last Iron Man had fallen-- _seven_ minutes later, not five, but Phil’d found himself caught up in the epic battle--he reached over and gently tugged Clint’s hair again. “Bedtime, ace. No more arguments.”

Clint let out a huge, heavy sigh. “Do I _have_ to?”

“You have to,” Phil informed him solemnly. “The sooner you go to bed, the sooner it’s Christmas morning.”

That worked, launching Clint to his feet, one hand closing around the ankle of his My Pet Monster toy. “Okay,” he said, nodding, holding his hand over his mouth as he yawned. “But I’m not sleepy. And neither is Bruce,” he added, hugging the toy to his chest.

“Okay,” Phil replied, his heart aching. Clint was so _soft_ like this, so sweet and vulnerable in a way that Barton never was. That the man trusted him enough to see the little boy still sometimes took his breath away. “Let’s get you a bath and get you into bed.”

Clint made a face at the word bath, but slid his hand into Phil’s when it was offered and followed him down the hall to the bathroom. He set Bruce on the closed toilet as Phil filled the tub, making sure to use plenty of bubbles. “Can I play battleship?”

“Only if the mission is to get a sleepy little boy clean as fast as possible,” Phil said, turning off the water in the tub.

“Not sleepy.” Clint yawned again, and Phil hid another smile, helping him tug his tshirt off, then his jeans. He stepped into the bath, accepting both the washcloth and the plastic boat Phil handed him and settled in, already lost in a story of sailors moving against the giant bubble monsters.

Phil took the opportunity to head back to the bedroom to lay out Clint’s new pajamas and turn off the rest of the lights in the house--aside from the Christmas tree. His heart ached softly again as he walked back to the bedroom and heard Clint talking softly to himself, so free and open. When he heard that, and thought of the pictures in Clint’s file--pictures of a bruised and abused five-year-old with wheat blond hair, frightened eyes and a split lip--it was enough to bring tears to his eyes. He took a deep, steadying breath and blinked them away. Clint didn’t need that from him. Later, when he was older again, maybe, but not now.

Once more composed, Phil slipped back into the bathroom. “Ready?”

Clint nodded, holding out his hand. “I’m all wrinkly!” he agreed cheerfully, eyes crinkling up at the edges.

Phil laughed, pulling the plug on the bath--and waiting out Clint’s insistence on watching all the water swirl away--before wrapping him in a huge fluffy towel and drying him off. “Ready for you new Christmas pajamas?” he asked, tapping Clint’s nose with the corner of a towel.

“Mmhmm,” Clint agreed, nodding, his body warm and pliant and relaxed in Phil’s hold.

“Good boy,” Phil murmured, grabbing Bruce and leading Clint to the bedroom, leading him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Hey, ace. Wake up for a second for me?”

Clint blinked sleepily up at him, but nodded. “Yeah?”

“Do you want to be a big boy or a little boy for sleeping tonight?”

Clint yawned again, tugging the towel closer around himself. “Little,” he replied, with none of the hesitation or embarrassment that’d marked the admission when they’d first started doing this, years ago. Another mark of the trust he had in Phil--and another reason for Phil’s heart to squeeze in his chest.

“Okay,” Phil replied, gently scruffing Clint’s hair, pleased he’d guessed correctly. “Scootch back for me, okay?”

Clint did as he was told, flumping back on the mattress, sprawling out as Phil quickly and efficiently diapered him, then pulled his pajama pants up over it. He tugged Clint up, sliding the pajama top on and handing Bruce to him. “Ready to sleep?”

Clint nodded, crawling up to the top of the bed, sticking his feet under the blankets. “With you?”

“Only way I can be sure you don’t go sneaking off to wait up for Santa.” Phil pulled the blankets down and tucked Clint in, kissing his forehead. “I’m gonna clean up your bath, but if you’re still awake after I’ll read you a story, okay?”

“M’kay,” Clint murmured, holding his eyes open wide. “I’ll be up.”

Personally doubting it, Phil returned the damp towel to the bathroom and rinsed out the tub, before returning to his room to change into his own pajamas. He watched Clint from the corner of his eye, having to hide another grin at the way his eyes kept falling to half-mast, before he forced them open again. “Someone really wants that story, huh?” he asked, sliding into bed next to Clint at last, leaning back against the headboard.

“Yes, please,” Clint replied, curling up close against him, laying his head in Phil’s lap. “Bruce wants to hear it, too.”

“Can’t say no to Bruce, can we?” Phil asked, running his hand through Clint’s soft, slightly damp hair, feeling the younger man giggle against him.

“Nope. He’ll eat us.”

Phil chuckled. “You happy, ace?”

“Mmhmm,” Clint murmured. “ _Safe_. Story now?”

Phil had to swallow, hard, before he trusted his voice enough to speak again. Safe. God. The things Clint could do to him with just one word. “Story now,” he agreed. “‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring. Not even a mouse.”

By the time Santa Claus made his appearance, Clint was snoring, softly, but Phil didn’t stop, murmuring the words of the old poem to the quiet room, still gently stroking Clint’s hair, his heart full of an emotion he didn’t dare name.

Eight months before, he’d been nearly killed by an angry god and Clint had been in the hands of the enemy. And now they were here, together, a soft snowfall outside and Christmas morning coming.

Maybe miracles weren’t so impossible after all.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the boys wanted you to see Christmas morning, too, not just Christmas Eve.

Clint woke abruptly, a thrill of tense anticipation flooding through him. He held perfectly still in the dark of the room, trying to pinpoint the threat that had him going from sleep to full awareness all at once.

Instead of gunfire, screams, shouting, or any of the usual sounds of conflict and worry, he heard only distant traffic and Phil’s soft breathing beside him. Shifting his weight, slightly, Clint felt the soft padding of a diaper around his middle and the plush bulk of a toy beside him.

 _Oh_.

He grinned, slowly, letting himself relax and snuggle closer to Phil. Not an op. Not danger. _Christmas_. An altogether much more pleasant cause of sudden adrenaline, he decided, glancing over at the alarm clock. 6:47 changed to 6:48 as he watched, the blue glow lighting Phil’s sleeping face before Clint dropped his head back to the other man’s shoulder.

He’d promised not to get Phil up before seven. Hell, he should’ve _wanted_ to sleep later than that, himself. The Avengers didn’t keep anything like normal schedules, but Clint had never been a morning person.

But he knew the tree was still shining in the living room, knew the stocking he’d hung up the night before was probably now all interestingly full and bulgy and he couldn’t _help_ it. He wanted to get up and see.

Wanted to have the Christmas he’d seen in a thousand movies and read about in books.

That Phil was willing to give it to him still sent warm bubbles careening around in his belly, ricocheting about and trying to escape his throat as a silly, giddy laugh. He shook his head at himself, burrowing closer against Phil. 

It was a shame, he thought for the thousandth time, that Phil had decided to never have kids of his own. Clint could understand why--their lives were so uncertain--but Phil definitely would’ve been an amazing father. He _was_ amazing, every time he indulged Clint in his play, never making him feel ridiculous, or like a freak, as he had before Phil. No, Phil made him feel safe, loved. Cared for.

Clint wriggled, just slightly, and looked up at Phil again. Still asleep. It would be cheating, to wake him up by accident, and Clint knew it. But if he _did_ wake up, then there’d be no point in sleeping longer. They could always take a nap later, before going to Steve’s for Christmas dinner.

And the sooner they got up, the sooner Phil could open his _real_ present. Clint had given him a “World’s Greatest Babysitter” mug to open in front of the team the night before--a joke with extra meaning between them, sure, but still a joke--but his real present was waiting under their own tree. Clint had been _dying_ from the anticipation and nerves of waiting to give it to him, and that combined with wanting to see what Phil had gotten _him_ was too much.

He burrowed in closer to Phil’s side, moving much more than was necessary, before going entirely limp when he felt Phil stir, slightly.

But his giggle gave him away.

Phil stirred again, his arm sliding around Clint, fingers ruffling his hair lightly. Clint leaned into the soft touch, humming lightly. “Morning, ace,” Phil murmured, voice rough with sleep.

“Mornin’,” Clint whispered back, belly dipping lightly at the nickname. He had no idea how Phil had come up with it, but he loved it, loved how it sounded proud and pleased and just a _little_ exasperated all at the same time. Like Clint drove him crazy but he loved him for it. “Merry Christmas.”

Phil chuckled, softly. “Oh, is it Christmas already?” He shifted and Clint looked up to see him checking the clock. “Looks to me like Christmas isn’t for another ten minutes.”

“It’s good manners to be early,” Clint replied, trying--and failing--to keep from grinning. “You shouldn’t keep people waiting, it’s rude.”

Phil laughed aloud, at that, rolling over to hug Clint close, tickling him lightly, ignoring his shrieks of laughter. “You little scamp, using my own words against me. I _should_ make you wait here until seven.”

“But...!” Clint pouted, giggling as Phil moved in to tickle him again. 

“You did promise, Clint,” Phil said, leaning half over him, fingers still poised against his sides.

“I’m sorry?” Clint said, though he knew he wasn’t, and he knew _Phil_ knew the same.

Phil laughed, softly, dropping his forehead to Clint’s chest for a moment. “No, you’re not,” he said, looking up and kissing Clint’s forehead. “But that’s okay. It’s hard to wait for Christmas morning.”

Clint nodded, feeling flushed and ridiculously happy as Phil ruffled his hair again and pulled away. “It really is,” he agreed, stretching as Phil released him, wriggling around and out from under the covers, waiting on the edge of the bed. “Can I get up?” he asked, extending one foot down to touch the floor, ready to pull back if Phil said no.

“In a minute,” Phil replied, pushing himself up and ignoring Clint’s answering pout. He stood, grabbing a robe to pull around himself and crossing to Clint’s side of the bed. “Do you need a change?”

“Nope,” Clint promised, foot creeping further across the carpet. “All dry. Now?”

“Now,” Phil said, at _last_ and Clint jumped up, sprinting for the living room.

The Christmas tree he’d help Phil decorate the week before was still lit, the warm glow of multicolored lights shining across the familiar furniture. The stocking he’d hung the night before was no longer limp but stuffed full, a model fighter jet sticking out of the top right beside a huge candy cane.

The milk and cookies by the fireplace were mostly gone, just a few bites left, a smear of milk to show what’d been in the glass. Clint skidded to a halt at the sight, a sudden, aching lump in his throat.

He knew Phil had done it. Knew he’d waited until Clint had fallen asleep to eat the cookies, drink the milk, fill the stocking. He knew it’d been Phil, not a mythical man in a red suit. But it was still _magic_.

Standing there now, in front of the tree, his arms wrapped tightly around himself, tears in his eyes, he swallowed, blinking hard. _This_ was Christmas. Someone staying up too late, getting up too early, all for you. Someone who cared so much they’d eat cookies and drink milk at one in the morning, just to make you happy. Someone who let themselves be silly and ridiculous, because they wanted to make things right.

Hell. This wasn’t just Christmas. This was _love_.

He swallowed again, feeling Phil’s hand slide onto his shoulder. “Everything okay?”

Clint spun, throwing his arms around Phil and hiding his head in his neck, hugging him tightly. He nodded, trying to keep from just bursting into tears as Phil’s arms came around him in turn, one hand cupping the back of his head as the other pulled him still closer. “ _Perfect_ ,” he managed, his voice barely able to squeak past the lump in his throat.

“Good,” Phil murmured, tugging him still closer, rocking him gently. He didn’t ask any more, just held Clint, gently stroking his hair, rubbing his back, until Clint got control over himself again.

He sighed, relaxing in Phil’s arms, resting his head on his shoulder. “Love you,” he whispered.

“Love you, too, ace,” Phil murmured back, hugging him tightly before releasing him at last. “Grab your spot, okay? I’ll get us some hot chocolate and then we can see what Santa brought.”

Clint nodded, grateful for the few moments to pull himself together. He settled on the thick round rug in front of the couch, tugging his knees to his chest and looking up at the full stocking. As soon as Phil came back, he could open it, give Phil his own gift...and that would be good. It would be wonderful.

But somehow he thought the very best part of Christmas had already happened, had already passed between them.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my awesome, amazing roommate for help in deciding what Clint got Phil for Christmas!

Phil watched as Clint tore into his stocking, examining each small toy and item as he removed it before adding it to the growing pile beside him. Phil had had all too much fun shopping for the contents, going to several different toy stores and gathering action figures, dinosaurs, bouncing balls, a small nerf gun--which he knew he was likely to regret--a package of plastic army men, silly putty, and a plethora of small, ridiculous toys. Clint seemed more than happy with the array, already lining up the Schleich plastic figures in battle formation, arrayed against several dinosaurs, a medieval world versus a Jurassic.

He added one final archer--Phil hadn’t been able to resist the smurf centaur with the bow--to the formation, and tipped out the tangerine from the tip of his stocking. “All done!” he announced, cheerfully. “Your turn.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to play for awhile?” Phil asked, as Clint crawled across the floor and leaned back against the couch, resting his head on Phil’s knee. He dropped his hand to Clint’s soft hair, running his fingers through it.

“No,” Clint replied, shaking his head. “I want you to open your presents.”

Phil shifted, a little surprised by the nervousness he could hear in Clint’s voice. What with everything else in preparing for this Christmas, he hadn’t thought much of what Clint might be getting _him_. It’d been enough to finally give Clint the Christmas he’d always wanted, one he’d never had as a child. It was enough to finally know why Clint always volunteered for ops over the holiday, why he’d always gone out of his way to ignore it.

But there were several presents under the tree addressed to him in Clint’s scrawl, and he couldn’t deny he was curious. “Okay, ace. Which one should I open first?”

Clint moved to the tree, hesitating over a long tube, before grabbing a rectangular shape instead.

In short order Phil had opened three books--two military history and one of elephant jokes he remembered from his _own_ childhood--and a CD of cello music. And each time, Clint had reached for the poster tube and then moved on. Phil exclaimed appropriately over each gift--and in truth had to resist opening the book on the Civil War and starting to read--but couldn’t push down the curiosity coming over him at the one Clint so obviously wanted to give him, and was so obviously scared to.

“Last one,” Clint said at last, sighing and pushing the tube into Phil’s hands. “It’s okay if you don’t like it,” he added, more defensively than usual. More adult, too, than he had since the day before with the other Avengers, and Phil took careful note of it as he slit the tape holding the wrapping closed and pulled the poster tube free.

“I’m sure I will,” Phil said, popping the top and sliding out the contents.

It was a vintage poster, slightly weathered. He unrolled it carefully, spreading it out in front of him--and gasped, softly.

“It’s weird, right?” Clint said, quickly, making a face. “It was a bad idea, I shouldn’t have...”

“Shut up, Barton,” Phil said gently, and Clint stopped talking, flushing slightly. “It’s perfect.”

It was, too. The poster proved to be a carnival poster--probably around fifteen to sixteen years old--advertising “The Amazing Hawkeye!” in bold letters across the bottom. And there, in the center, wearing a ridiculous, wonderful purple costume, and smirking as only a teenager could, was his Clint, holding his bow and aiming off into the distance.

“It’s, uh...I had to get it on eBay,” Clint explained, after a moment, when Phil didn’t say anything, just traced the line of the purple and green bullseye behind Clint. “Didn’t have anything like that left, from when I was...anyway. That’s why the signature’s not personalized, I must’ve signed it back then. I can add something, if you want. I know it’s kinda dumb, but you have a bunch of Steve’s stuff, and I’m not Captain America, but I thought...”

“I love it,” Phil interrupted firmly, setting the poster aside, and reaching down to tug Clint up onto the couch beside him, taking one of his hands and rubbing it gently, fingers sliding over the callouses left by his bow. That Clint would give him this, from a part of his life he really didn’t mention often, touched Phil deeply. That he’d share it in a way meant to be displayed, where others could see it, comment on it...that touched him even more. “I know just where I’m putting it up, too.”

Clint flushed, his fingers closing reflexively over Phil’s, before relaxing again. “I...wasn’t sure,” he said, looking up again, the defensive walls starting to lift from behind his eyes, his shoulders relaxing again. “But it seemed like...well...” He huffed a soft laugh. “Not like you can put baby pictures up, right?”

A pang went through Phil’s chest, and he squeezed Clint’s hand, hard. “Thank you, Clint,” he said, trying to put all his gratitude, his understanding, in his voice. Trying through the words to tell Clint just _how much_ this meant to him, another step forward in the trust he’d once thought he’d never earn. He was grateful enough for the poster, but the true gift was what lay behind it. “I mean it. I can’t tell you what this means to me. _Thank you_.”

“You’re welcome,” Clint whispered, curling up against Phil’s side, leaning against him and sighing, softly.

“Ready to open up the rest of your presents?” Phil asked, relaxing himself as the knot of tension in his gut eased, now that Clint was once again warm and trusting against him. He knew how to deal with Agent Barton--better than most, in fact--but he _hated_ it when the mask descended between them here. Here, where Clint should only have to be himself.

Clint shook his head, pressing closer. “No.”

“Want something to eat?” Phil asked, stroking his hair now, smiling when Clint shook his head again, growing heavier as he burrowed still closer.

“No.”

“What do you want, ace?”

“This,” Clint said, squirming just a little more, until he was sitting in Phil’s lap, and rested his head on Phil’s shoulder. “Please?”

“Okay.” Phil wrapped his arms around him, holding him close, resting his cheek on Clint’s hair. He let his eyes close, listening to the soft Christmas music he’d put on in the background, feeling Clint heavy and trusting in his arms. He hummed along, softly, until Clint’s breathing deepened, evened, and he fell asleep, still held close.

Quite a change, from the hard-edged agent who wouldn’t sleep if there was anyone else in the room with him, no matter how tired he was, Phil thought, shifting slightly to again look at the poster. At Clint’s autograph, scrawled in gold ink. _Best wishes, Clint Barton_. Not so personal, no, but he imagined Clint might mean it more for him than whoever had received the signature in the first place.

Yeah, he had the perfect place for the poster. And he somehow didn’t think Captain Rogers would mind his own being replaced. Not for this.

Phil sighed, hugging Clint closer. Soon, he’d wake him so they could finish with Christmas morning. Soon they’d clean up, get dressed, head out and spend the afternoon at Captain Rogers’ with the others who didn’t have a family to visit. Soon he’d share Clint with his teammates and friends.

But right now the younger man was all his.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my photoshop skills are severely lacking, but imagine [the poster is full of awesome:](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m66v42YZEV1qd7769o1_1280.jpg)


End file.
